


Gone to Seed

by deadlifts



Series: The End of Fódlan: An Apocalyptic AU [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: As Fódlan's last hope, Dimitri and his group of survivors prepare to head east. The transition is harder than they anticipate.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Series: The End of Fódlan: An Apocalyptic AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556476
Comments: 30
Kudos: 154





	Gone to Seed

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows [Last Snow Before Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590491). I recommend reading that first for context, but the gist is this an apocalyptic AU where Fódlan has essentially been destroyed by Those Who Slither in the Dark. As Fódlan's last hope, Dimitri's group of survivors is preparing to head east to try and save the country. 
> 
> This was originally going to be more plot-focused but it became 5000+ words of everyone reacting to the big change of heading east and supporting each other through the emotional transition that accompanies that plan. It's basically just a big cycle of hurt/comfort. 
> 
> Please be mindful of the following warnings: This fic contains descriptions of food shortages/hunger and hunting animals (for food). Though no one is tortured or killed in the narrative itself, there are references to past character deaths and the previous torture of a main character. Dimitri is a key character in this story, so there are also mentions of his ghosts and his mental state; in addition, some characters harbor bleak outlooks and grapple with anxiety & depression as a result of their personal traumas. There is also one brief mention of Miklan.

Many cultures have parables that expound the importance of treasuring that which may be lost. Almyra has songs dedicated to the topic, to be sung around a fire, typically before a great battle. Fódlan has fables passed on to children as they are tucked into bed at night. Brigid has a series of idioms, which Petra recited to him one afternoon, overlooking him from her tree. Even Dedue once shared a short story about a man who went in search of the perfect flower, only to return to find his own beautiful field had withered away in his absence. 

Claude thinks of the man in that story as he lifts his bow. 

Failnaught feels heavy and unfamiliar in his gloved hands. Claude wraps his fingers around it as he had five years ago during his final stand, but it remains unresponsive. It doesn’t glow or pulsate, it doesn’t hum — whereas before it felt alive in his fingers, it now feels dead. 

He pulls the string back to test the tension. Within his gloves, his fingers fail to absorb the nuance. Scarred and weak from lack of use, they feel numb, the pressure of the bow unfamiliar. The first time he tries to load an arrow, he nearly drops it. The second time, he shoots too low. The third, too high. 

He tries again, aiming at a branch. It misses. 

Whereas in his youth Claude had always been skilled at hiding his emotions, it is more difficult now, after five years of being made to react in horrifying ways for an audience. The pieces of himself that he used to believe worthy of hiding behind his easygoing façade have been drained away, his mask shattered so many times that he’s left with only a rudimentary control over himself. When he retrieves the arrow, it’s with a slumping in his shoulders, a shaky sigh — he must catch himself and right his posture. 

He’s alone for the moment, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be alone for long. Here at the last outpost in all of Faerghus, possibly all of Fódlan, Claude is rarely awarded moments of true privacy. At times, it helps being around others, their constant presence staving off some of the worst of his memories. At others, such as right now, it feels suffocating. For all that he was a people person, Claude has always needed his downtime, too — to analyze, research, assess. Just to be himself, for a while. 

He needs that downtime now, edging on despair as he tries to shoot an arrow again and misses. He will not be the only incapable fighter in this group. He will not be the chain that holds everyone back during their trip east. 

He gets no such downtime, however. 

“Claude.” 

He turns to look at Bernadetta, who has joined him outside. She shivers in the wind, then looks at him, concerned. “Aren’t you cold?” The snow has melted, but spring in Faerghus, especially this far north, brings with it winds that have not yet released the hand of winter. 

“A little,” he admits. In truth, he is quite cold, and it probably doesn’t help his archery practice, but he’s too stubborn to give up, when he has yet to hit his target at least once. 

He notices that she’s staring at Failnaught. He can see that her mind is working to make sense of the fact that it hasn’t activated for him. He holds it out to her. “I’ll trade you for one of the other bows you have.” 

“What? N-no, I couldn’t.” She seems alarmed and wary of the offer. 

“Why not? You’ve been using it all this time.” He tries to keep his tone light and friendly. 

She stares at it uncertainly, then looks back up at Claude. “But it’s yours. Your crest...” She realizes what she’s saying as she stands before the stark evidence that something isn’t right with his crest, and fumbles over her words. “I mean — I don’t mean your crest. Well, that’s part of it, but um, it’s yours, so you should use it, I couldn’t...If I gave you the impression that I wanted to keep it, I’m so—” 

He interrupts to keep her from spiraling further. “I was going to trade it when I got to Sreng,” he confesses. He never mentioned this to anyone — not that it is a secret, but there was never any reason to, once he decided to stay with the group. When Sylvain told him they had it, he was going to claim it, bring it across the border, and give it to the first person who offered him a ship ride to Almyra. “I don’t care about my crest.” 

He isn’t sure if the last statement is entirely true. It used to be — crests were a Fódlan concern and held no weight outside of its borders, so as useful as his could be, he never considered it necessary — but now that it is no longer working, he feels a sense of loss. 

It’s complicated. 

Bernadetta doesn’t seem to think that his confession matters. “What if I just...hold it for you?” she asks, uncertainly. “Until you’re ready.” 

He tries to give her a smile. “That’ll work.” 

They trade bows. Claude stays outside a while longer and finds that while he still struggles with hitting his target, the plain steel bow that Bernadetta gave him is at least more comfortable in his grip. 

It’s something, he tells himself. He has to start somewhere. 

Eventually, he’s cold beyond the point of functional, so he heads inside and thaws by a fire that Sylvain lights for him in one of the sitting rooms. Dimitri, having heard them talking, comes to sit beside him on the floor. He reaches out to touch Claude’s gloved hand. 

Dimitri can be very physical, Claude has learned. Not with the others so much as with him. Most of the time, Claude takes comfort in it, even seeks it out himself. Prior to arriving at the manor, Claude hadn’t been touched kindly in years; there are times when he feels starved for tenderness. He wants to be reminded that despite his scars and bared secrets, Dimitri still wants to touch him. It's nice that someone thinks he’s deserving of affection. 

But sometimes Claude has bad days, and on those bad days, he can’t stand to be touched. 

As Dimitri is reaching for him, Claude realizes that this is a bad day. He pulls away before Dimitri can make contact and stares into the fire instead of looking him in the eye. 

He can hear Dimitri respond to the rejection by pulling back and putting more distance between them. Claude knows that Dimitri understands because he has bad days, too, but he knows that it hurts him all the same, and those thoughts only make everything feel worse. 

“The wind is picking up,” Dimitri says. It’s nonsense — he’s trying to speak about neutral topics for Claude’s sake. “There might be a storm tonight.” 

Claude doesn’t answer. He’s trying not to think of the day’s failures. He’s trying not to think about the fact that he’s leading everyone on what will likely be a suicide mission. He’s trying not to imagine what his parents will say when he turns up in their country, alive but broken, the tool that wrought the end of a country. 

“Claude.” 

Claude doesn’t look at him. He can’t. But Dimitri continues anyway. “I will not touch you,” he promises, “but you must relax your hands.” 

Claude looks down and sees that his fingers are tightly curled into his thighs — he hadn’t even felt that. He feels ashamed of that momentary weakness, so he forces himself to let go and stands. “I need the room tonight,” he tells Dimitri, without looking at him. 

“Of course,” Dimitri replies. It isn’t fair of Claude to kick Dimitri out of his room — _their_ room — but he knows he’s going to lose it very soon, and as much as Dimitri wants to be an anchor for him, to keep Claude afloat, Claude wants to hide what little he secrets he has left. 

He wants to hide his despair. 

And no matter what he asks or demands, Dimitri always _gives_. 

So he locks Dimitri out of the room, presses himself up against his window, and breaks down. 

Hours later, he’s exhausted but unable to sleep, so he leaves the room to search for Dimitri. He finds him in the same sitting room where he left him earlier, sitting in a chair. The fire has long gone out, but even in the dark, Claude can tell Dimitri isn’t sleeping. 

“You can come to bed,” Claude tells him. 

Dimitri stands and walks over to him, but stops before he gets too close. “Can I touch you?” he asks. 

“Yeah, if you want,” Claude answers. He keeps his response neutral, careful not to inject any hope or eagerness into his statement, though it is what he wants; a reminder that Dimitri will still touch him, even if he shuts him out for a while. 

Dimitri brushes light fingertips across Claude’s cheek. Claude closes his eyes. 

Then Dimitri leans in and kisses his forehead — carefully, gently — before taking him in his arms. 

“We’re doing the right thing,” Dimitri murmurs. 

Better to go east for one final scheme than to die here like cowards, Claude knows. Better to keep trying and failing to shoot a bow than to give up. Better to pretend to be himself than to wallow in his losses. 

“I know.” 

He just hopes that he isn’t the catalyst for the end of Fódlan’s last hope. He hopes they aren’t walking away from what could be a field of flowers, into the darkness where everything will wither away. 

* * *

It’s mid-morning when Sylvain wakes up with a start, at first disoriented by his surroundings, the remnants of a nightmare clouding his consciousness. Even with horrors all around them and the very real threat of death by various terrible causes, somehow Sylvain still has the occasional nightmare about Miklan — as though his presence still reigns bigger than everything else in his subconscious. 

He rolls over to find that Felix is still sleeping beside him, which is very unusual. Felix is an early riser; he’s usually up by dawn and hassling Sylvain to join him. On the rare occasion that he stays in bed and allows Sylvain to sleep, he’s always awake, waiting. 

Sylvain snuggles up against him, pulling Felix into his arms and holding him close. Felix still doesn’t stir, which is starting to get concerning, so Sylvain blows on his neck. 

“What are you doing?” Felix finally grumbles, voice heavy with sleep. 

“You’re sleeping in,” Sylvain says, then follows up with a light kiss against his neck. 

Felix reaches back to swat at his head but misses. “So? You always tell me to stay in bed.” 

“Yeah, but you never listen.” 

They fall silent. He can hear Felix’s breath begin to even out again. 

“Felix.” Sylvain blows on his neck again. 

“What?” Felix asks, voice now soft, half asleep. 

“Are you okay?” Sylvain reaches to rest his palm against his forehead, checking for a fever. He feels warm, but not dangerously so. 

Felix shoves him away. “I’m fine,” he insists. “I’m just tired.” He pulls as far away from Sylvain as he can in the small bed. “Go bother someone else.” 

He doesn’t want to leave the warmth of bed and the prospect of cuddling a for-once willing Felix, but he’s worried, now, which means he isn’t going to be able to relax. That, in turn, means he’s going to keep annoying Felix, so Sylvain decides to get up and give him space. 

He heads into the dining room where Annette and Mercedes are cleaning up from their meager breakfast and takes a seat. 

“Where’s Felix?” Annette asks. 

“He’s still sleeping,” Sylvain replies. “Isn’t that weird?” 

“A little,” Annette agrees, frowning. “Does he feel okay?” 

Sylvain sighs and leans back in the chair. “He seems to, but...” Felix will kill him, but Sylvain decides it’ll be a worthy death. “Mercedes, do you think you can check on him?” 

“If he will allow me,” Mercedes says. 

He watches them finish cleaning up, then sits and restlessly waits while Mercedes checks in on Felix. When she returns, she takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. “He wasn’t happy,” she says; Sylvain knows he’ll have to prepare for Felix’s anger. “But he allowed me to examine him. He’s healthy, as far as I can tell.” 

It’s a relief, but it doesn't explain his strange behavior. “Is he getting up?” he asks. 

Mercedes shakes her head. “He said he’s taking the day off.” 

Sylvain exhales, slowly. Were it anyone else, that would be a perfectly normal statement — all of them have had their days where getting up and going through their routines seem to be too much. Even Sylvain has had times where he couldn't bring himself to complete the simplest tasks. 

But never Felix. Though Dimitri is the leader of their group, Felix is the one who takes care of all the detailed dirty work that keeps them going — from hunting to keeping track of their rations to making sure everyone remembers to train. He has always been the backbone of their group. 

He never takes days off. Ever. 

Mercedes reaches across the table to take Sylvain’s hand in hers. “Sylvain,” she says softly. “We’re preparing for a big change. Heading east will be dangerous and we won’t have the comforts of this manor to shelter us if anything happens. We will be fighting for our lives.” 

“It’s the right thing to do,” he asserts. “It’s all we have left.” 

“You’re correct,” she agrees. “If we don’t try, we will eventually starve to death here, waiting for an answer that will never come.” She smiles at him, a little sadly. “But even knowing that, I feel frightened. Don’t you?” 

"Sure.” Sylvain takes a moment to process her point, then asks, “You think Felix is afraid?” 

He isn’t, Sylvain wants to argue. It isn’t that Felix is incapable of fear; it’s that he refuses to give into it. 

“I think Felix feels responsible for us,” Mercedes explains. “Even though he readily agreed to go on this journey, I don’t think it is an easy decision for him.” 

Felix has been so focused on their preparations, it didn’t occur to Sylvain that he would be second guessing the plan. He’s always so determined and focused, it’s sometimes hard to remember that beneath his prickly exterior, he’s as emotional as the rest of them, too. 

He stands and walks over to Mercedes, scooping her into his arms and giving her a huge hug. “Never change,” he tells her while she laughs at his abrupt affection. 

Then he grabs his morning rations and goes to Felix. 

Felix is awake, but he’s still lying in bed, his back to the door. “You didn’t have to send Mercedes,” he says, without turning to face him. 

“You’re right. I’m an idiot.” Sylvain sits beside him on the bed. 

At that, Felix rolls over, leveling him with a glare. 

Sylvain holds out their sparse breakfast of dried moose meat. “Breakfast in bed,” he declares. “I’m going to take care of you today.” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Felix tells him, though he sits up and takes the meat from Sylvain. “I don’t need anything.” 

“You do,” Sylvain insists. “You’re going to stay in bed all day today and I’m going to lavish you with attention and affection, because it’s what you deserve.” 

Felix rolls his eyes. “That sounds like punishment.” 

“Okay.” Sylvain leans forward to whisper in his ear. “We can call it punishment." 

Five years of living in difficult conditions, always at each other's side, and Sylvain is still capable of making Felix flush. 

“Remind me never to sleep in again,” Felix complains, but when Sylvain grazes his lips across his jawline, Felix pulls him closer. 

* * *

It is nearly noon when Dimitri emerges from the room he shares with Claude. Claude, exhausted from the prior night, is still asleep, though at some point in the night he moved from their bed to the window. Dimitri is careful not to wake him as he leaves the room. 

He’s surprised to find that the house is quiet. Since the decision to travel east, everyone has been busy with preparations; it’s rare for the common areas to be so empty. As he nears the kitchen, however, he hears a low whimper, and then a shaky inhale that is unmistakably the sound of someone crying. 

He follows the noise until he finds Annette, sitting on the kitchen floor, broken glass and liquid around her. 

“Are you hurt?” Dimitri calls. 

She tries to wipe her tears away as she responds. “N-no, I’m okay!” 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“I...I dropped the last of Bernadetta’s chamomile,” she confesses, new tears staining her cheeks. “Our teapot — I’m sorry." She stands. “I’ll clean it up.” 

Dimitri holds out a hand. “Please, allow me.” 

“It’s my mess,” she protests. 

“Annette.” Dimitri tries to inject authority into his tone. She’s still so distraught, he doesn’t want her handling the glass. He also doesn’t want to see her so upset. If he can help out in some small way, he will. "I will clean it up." 

She stops, hesitates, but ultimately nods and hugs her knees again, watching as Dimitri carefully gathers all of the shards and wipes up the liquid with a torn cloth. Once everything is clean, he takes a seat next to Annette on the kitchen floor. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. Her tears have dried, but she still looks miserable. “I ruined it for everyone.” 

“The tea is not important,” he tells her. It’s true they all enjoy it as one of the last remaining luxuries in a world where there are nearly none, but Dimitri firmly believes that the enjoyment is less about the tea than enjoying it together — drinking and talking on a cold winter’s night, or helping each other calm down after an argument. “You are. I'm glad you weren’t hurt.” 

“I know I can’t mess up like this when we leave here,” she tells him, curling her hands into fists. “I promise I won’t.” 

“You are extremely powerful.” She looks at him as he speaks. “You have always been one of the strongest among us. No one is worried about how you will perform.” 

“I’m worried,” she whispers. 

Dimitri wants to reassure her, but he doesn’t know how to impart to her how he feels — and how he believes everyone else feels, too. His words always feel so lacking. Even Felix, for all his brusqueness, would be better at comforting Annette. 

He tries, though. “Even if something were to go wrong, we are all here to pick up the pieces.” 

She smiles at him, then, despite her reddened eyes and the dried tear tracks on her face. “Like you just did.” 

"Yes," Dimitri replies, emphatic, heartened by her receptiveness to his attempt to comfort her. 

"You're right." She gets to her feet. “Thank you.” 

He shakes his head — there is no need for thanks. 

Before she leaves the kitchen, she pauses. “Oh, um, please don’t tell Felix I was crying,” she requests, a little sheepishly. 

“Felix would not think less of you,” he assures her. Dimitri is quite positive that nothing Annette could do would ever make him think badly of her. 

“It’s not that.” She frowns, biting her lip. “I think he’s having a rough day, and I don’t want to make it worse.” 

Dimitri stands, then, mirroring Annette’s frown. “I see. I will not tell him.” 

She thanks him again, then leaves him in the kitchen. 

Dimitri makes the difficult decision to go knock on Felix’s door. If he is in a mood, Dimitri is likely the last person he wants to see, and yet, Dimitri can’t help himself. Felix is always checking in on him; he feels he should do the same. 

Felix answers, still in his night clothes, looking rumpled but healthy. He steps out instead of letting Dimitri in. “I finally got Sylvain to take a nap,” he explains, as though he is talking about a child. “What do you want?” 

“Are you alright?” Dimitri asks. 

“Are you?” Felix asks, of course turning the question around on him. 

"I am,” Dimitri responds. “For now.” 

Felix eyes him, judging the accuracy of his statement, then huffs in quiet acknowledgement. “Good.” 

That seems to be as much as Felix will allow. Dimitri presses, perhaps stupidly, “You can tell me if you are worried.” 

Felix hisses back, “Of course I’m worried. We’re about to walk to our deaths.” 

That surprises Dimitri, because Felix had been the first to voice his assent with Claude’s proposal to go east. “You don’t think we’ll survive?” he asks. 

“It doesn’t matter what I think about the outcome,” Felix replies, allowing the ire to drain from his tone. “It’s better to die moving toward something than to sit around and wait for death.” 

“Felix...” Dimitri had not considered that Felix would consider this a suicide mission. It bothers him. For all his gruff way of handling matters, Felix is essentially his right-hand man. He wants to hear that he believes in their final mission — that he believes in _Claude_ — not that he believes they will march to their deaths. 

“We need to go,” Felix tells him. “That’s all there is to it.” 

Felix leaves it at that, returning to his room. 

Dimitri retreats back to his own bedroom. Claude is awake, but will not meet his eyes. 

He can’t hold anything or anyone in his hands — either he holds too tightly and crushes, or he holds too lightly and loses. 

* * *

The next day, Claude talks Felix into sparring with him. Felix seems hesitant, which initially rubs Claude the wrong way because he knows that Felix still considers training to be of the utmost importance. At first, he thinks Felix considers him weak and incapable, but that ends up being an incorrect assumption — Felix doesn’t go easy on him at all. He bests Claude repeatedly, and each time asserts, “You can do better than that,” in a way that simultaneously annoys and encourages him. 

He’s come to realize, over the months he has lived in the manor, that Felix’s attitude is born out of a place of caring. It’s his way of keeping everyone in line so that they don’t end up losing to this horrible new world. He doesn’t mince words, but they’re all past the time of delicacies, anyway. 

When Felix lands a particularly jarring blow on Claude that flips him on his back and leaves him winded, he can see, for a brief moment, stark concern grace Felix's face; as soon as Claude stands and asserts that he’s fine, Felix goes back to grumbling. He concludes that Felix’s earlier hesitancy was less about Claude’s ability to handle sparring and more worry that he might accidentally do some real damage. 

When they finish, Claude exhausted beyond his new limitations, they walk into the house in time to hear something bang and shatter. Claude is about to run in that direction to see what’s wrong, but Felix puts his hand out and stops him. 

“The beast has returned,” he declares, low and dark. 

He means Dimitri, Claude knows; this isn’t the first time Dimitri has had a bad day. Felix’s treatment of Dimitri is another aspect of his personality that Claude had initially misunderstood. He thought that Felix might hate Dimitri, at first, or at least hate that side of him, and fear for everyone else in the manor. He realizes now that it’s not the others for whom he fears — he fears for Dimitri. He knows that if Dimitri were to do something he’d regret while in a state, it would be the end of him. 

It’s why Felix never allows Claude to go near Dimitri when he’s like this. 

“You’ll have to sleep somewhere else tonight,” Felix tells him as he disappears down the hall to handle the situation. 

Claude always feels relieved when Felix steps in and bars him from seeing Dimitri during these times. He feels obligated to help the man who has shown him nothing but faith and kindness, even when Claude is at his worst. Were it five years ago, he knows he would have been able to handle it. But now — 

It unnerves him. Claude would never say as much out loud, but he knows Dimitri is aware, that it makes him feel awful, and he knows that Felix knows all of this and steps in to keep everyone from making mistakes. 

He knows, too, that it’s a burden for Felix. He’s seen him emerge from Dimitri’s room looking absolutely exhausted, as though all his fire has been snuffed out. 

Claude waits a few moments, then walks down the hall until he gets to Dimitri’s room. He sits outside the door and he listens. 

He can hear Felix’s angry tone, berating Dimitri into returning to his right mind. He can hear Dimitri’s empty tone, not arguing, but not listening either. There’s the sound of something smashing, and then Felix swears. Claude closes his eyes. 

Eventually, Felix emerges, immediately turning to Claude to ask, “What are you doing?” 

“Can I go in now?” Claude asks. 

“No,” Felix replies without missing a beat. “Sylvain!” he yells, not at all concerned about disturbing the other residents of their manor. 

Sylvain emerges from their room. Felix looks down at Claude, then inclines his head in a way that Claude takes to mean, _Get rid of him._ With a smile that is more practiced than encouraging, Sylvain says, “Why don’t we get them some water?” 

Claude stands and follows him out of the house to the buckets that collect their rain water for when their stores run low. Sylvain picks one up and holds it out to Claude. 

“Everyone’s losing hope,” Claude says as he accepts the bucket. 

“Nah. Dimitri's had days like this for a long time,” Sylvain tells him. It’s meant to be a reassurance, but it falls flat. 

“Dimitri isn’t the only one.” The surge of good cheer that everyone felt upon deciding on a course of action has faded now that they are approaching their departure date. Claude may not be as skilled at analyzing people as he was five years ago, but he isn’t so rusty that he is blind to that shift. 

“Don’t look at it as losing hope,” Sylvain tells him, lifting another bucket. “Look at it as learning how to hope again. What’s that saying? ‘The greatest hope is born out of the worst hour of despair?’” 

“The greatest faith,” Claude corrects. It was a saying that originated from the Church of Seiros, and it was in reference to the Goddess, not faith in mankind, and certainly not a group of people trying to save a dying world. 

“Same difference,” Sylvain says with a wave of his free hand. “It’s like that. Everyone’s going to freak out until it's time to go, so that all they have left when we leave the manor behind is hope.” 

Claude narrows his eyes at Sylvain. “Were you always this insightful?” 

With a grin, Sylvain replies, “You weren’t the only one with secrets, you know.” 

They return inside. Sylvain takes his bucket into the kitchen to fill a couple of cups and store the remainder. Claude decides to leave his bucket by the door in favor of going back to the bedroom. 

Felix is standing at the open door, arms folded. His expression turns exasperated when he sees Claude empty-handed. “You're supposed to be getting water.” 

Claude glances behind him. He sees Dimitri at his window, muttering to himself. 

“I want to talk to him,” Claude tells Felix. 

He wants to bear some of this burden, just as Dimitri does for him. 

He wants to foster the growth of hope — to keep everyone looking forward. This is his scheme; as the leader of this group, Dimitri is deferring to his judgement. Claude knows he has to take responsibility, has to keep pushing forward, and he knows it starts here: facing his fears and being the pillar that everyone needs — that Dimitri needs. 

“No.” 

“Dimitri,” Claude calls. 

Dimitri slowly rolls his eye in their direction. Felix turns to check if there’s a response, and as he is momentarily distracted, Claude pushes past him. 

“Claude,” Felix whispers, tight and angry. 

“It’s okay,” Claude promises, and hopes he is correct. 

He slowly approaches Dimitri, who watches him with only mild awareness — contrary to his earlier outbursts, he’s subdued, but Claude knows that can change in a moment’s notice. Ignoring the way his anxiety increases with each step, Claude keeps moving forward until he’s right in front of Dimitri. 

“Don’t —” Felix protests, but Claude ignores him. 

“Dimitri,” he says again, slowly kneeling before him. Dimitri’s eye follows him downward. 

Claude thinks about Dimitri's physicality — from his first moments in this manor, Dimitri has always reached out for him. All this time, Claude had assumed it was for his own benefit, but now he wonders if it was, in some way, Dimitri reaching out for what he needs, too. Claude tries to count how many times he has touched Dimitri for _Dimitri’s_ sake, rather than his own, and he comes up short. 

In a gesture he isn’t sure that Dimitri can register in his current state of mind, Claude removes his gloves — something he has not done in front of anyone. His hands, once befitting an archer in their skill, had been the first to be permanently scarred. They are his greatest loss; he hates looking at them, because they do not seem like his own. Because of these marred hands, he can no longer wield a bow. 

He does it for Dimitri — drops his gloves and reaches out his disfigured hand to gently cup Dimitri’s cheek. 

Dimitri’s eye closes. 

Claude breathes a little easier, seeing that. But then Dimitri moves to place his hand over Claude’s and Claude flinches despite himself — jerks away in instinctual fear. He hears Felix swear behind him, expecting fallout. 

But Dimitri doesn’t move. 

“I’m sorry,” Claude tells him, and tries again. He runs his bare fingers along Dimitri’s cheek. This time, when Dimitri covers his hand with his own, Claude doesn’t flinch. 

“Will you come to bed?” Claude asks. 

Dimitri doesn’t reply, but he allows Claude to lead him to the bed. Instead of tucking himself into Dimitri's arms, Claude wraps his arms around him and holds him close. 

“Unbelievable,” Felix mutters, but he can’t hide the relief in his tone — not now that Claude has come to understand him better. “I’m not leaving,” he adds. 

“You’re welcome to join us,” Claude says quietly, a mild tease as he rubs circles along Dimitri’s arm. 

“You barely fit in that bed with him,” Felix points out. 

Sylvain brings the water, but seeing that Dimitri has been tucked in bed, he sets it aside. He leaves for a moment and shows back up with an armful of bedding, deciding that he might as well “join the party.” He talks Felix into resting with him, and the two set themselves up beside the bed. Eventually, Dimitri’s breathing evens out and everyone sleeps for a while. 

When Dimitri awakens, thrashing and yelling, Felix steps in to wrangle him while Sylvain calms Claude’s half-awake, panic-induced response of trying to bolt out of the room. When everyone settles, Claude coaxes Dimitri back to the bed, and they sleep once more. 

In the morning, Dimitri still isn’t himself, but he continues to allow Claude to touch him. Even Felix admits that it makes a difference. 

Claude doesn’t put his gloves back on that day. Or the next. 

Even after Dimitri returns to himself, he seeks out the warmth of Claude’s hands — the skin-to-skin contact that Claude had, all this time, been holding back. 

Claude decides to leave his gloves off. 

It helps them both. 

* * *

The day before their departure, Claude’s arrow hits the edge of his chosen target for the first time. It's a promising sign. 

Before they leave, the group sits around and writes letters to those who have disappeared but may yet still be alive, somewhere. 

Felix will not show anyone his letter, but Sylvain knows he writes to his father — an apology, long overdue. 

Sylvain writes to Ingrid, also an apology — for failing to find her and bring her home. 

Dimitri writes to Dedue, whose sacrifice enabled Dimitri to make it this far. 

Mercedes writes to her brother Emile, the words _I love you. That never changes._ are clearly visible as she folds hers up. 

Annette writes to her father and offers forgiveness. 

Bernadetta writes to Ferdinand and Lorenz, asking them to return safely. 

Claude writes, _I’m alive,_ in his Almyran hand, _and I’m coming_. 

Dimitri writes the last note, to go on top of the pile. _We will return for you._

When they gather their supplies and shut the door to the manor one final time, Claude thinks about flowers and how withered fields can be replanted. He thinks about hope blossoming from the seeds of despair. 

He takes Dimitri’s hand and squeezes it. Dimitri squeezes back. 

Annette begins to hum one of her songs. 

No one looks back.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote about the greatest faith being born in the hour of despair is by Lee Roberson.


End file.
